Eye of the Soul ©
by Shadafakup
Summary: ▪Slash▪ Wandering around during the Seven Days of Night could only mean trouble, but it is far worse when Harry croses the path of a vampire. With treachery at its peak, just what destruction befalls him? ▪DracoHarry▪ Touch of DracoRonHermoine


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**Eye of the Soul**   


  


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**Warning**: Questionable themes. Read with caution.  
**Pairings**: **Draco/Harry**, Draco/Hermoine, Draco/Ron, Ron/Harry, Ron/Hermoine – character promiscuity is a good thing.  
**Disclaimer**: Characters do not belong to me, only imagination.  
As it is, I implore you to read till the ending. **Dedications** go to **embyr81788** who I can safely said has been a constant and lovely reviewer. A nod to **Malfoyslave** who has done quite the same, if not more.

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Leaves echoed in his wake, crunching against the scarred asphalt.   
  
"Fang," he yelled into the silence. "Oh Fang! Come here boy. Please, just come here."  
  
Trust Fang to chose to disappear during the Seven Days of Night. The man quickened his footsteps even as he unconsciously drew his robe tighter around him. Indifferent silence greeted him as he rushed along, eyes frantically searching the area. Only insanity would have driven a man to wander around during this period but he could not leave Fang alone. The chill wind that trailed in his wake had never rushed by so mournfully, nor had he before remembered such abject paleness in the moon's glow.   
  
An aura of stale magic shrouded his vision, and he resisted the temptation to whip out his wand and inject much needed light into his surroundings. A sudden drop in temperatures caused him to start nervously, but there was no one around.  
  
Or so he thought.  
  
•  
  
The numerous pieces of parchment lay scattered on the oak table even as the lamplight burnt lower. Hermione chewed the tip of her quill, trying to concentrate but to no avail. The task before her lay daunting and weighed heavy on her shoulders. But she had made so many promises. Granted, most of them were to herself, but the pressure was starting to wear her thin.  
  
_If only..._  
  
There was a chime and the hand on the clock ticked into place. It was an hour past midnight, and realizing Harry had still not yet returned, she put on a robe, and strode out of the door.  
  
•  
  
_IshouldnottbehereIshouldnotbehereIshouldnotbehere._  
  
Even as he tried to reason with himself, his feet took him to another turn, where sounds drifted like notes across an old accordion to his ear He was familiar with this atmosphere, (sometimes he thinks he belongs there), but he tries to hide his face. The truth hurts, as with Ron, as with Hermoine.  
  
Dark shadows converged with the walls and pale silhouettes flitted across his vision. Caressing him was the air so sharp, so hostile, that he could barely breathe. The nightmarish coalescence clawed at him, but he blatantly ignored the signs, wanting only to find Fang, and return.  
  
Voices called out. Voices thin and papery, almost substance-less. His own shoulders started to bunch up, preparing to fight, ready to flee. With apprehension, he wound his way into a solitary lane, hidden almost by crumbling bricks that lay dusty along the sidewalk. Everything seemed so grey, so black, but deep in his heart was a toneless song singing that this was his home.  
  
Freezing, he jerked back reflexively, as numbness seized his movements. Long fingers closed painfully around his right hip.  
  
"Mister Potter. You shouldn't be here."  
  
Harry struggled, but hopelessness ground into him, for he was immobilized. Nails dug through the fabric and grasped as his skin before he stayed still. Trying to seek out an escape route, he was rudely obscured with the profound darkness of the alleyway.  
  
"The great Harry Potter must have a welcome," the voice whispered, and Harry could feel the Goosebumps appearing on his neck. "Follow me."  
  
Perhaps it was out of curiosity, or the doing of the disembodied voice, but it took his feet along the street, where he plodded on the uneven roads, even as eyes glinted from the darkness, empty, and accusing.  
  
•  
  
It was not a council he was brought to, but a room starkly bare of furniture. His partner hissed something into the darkness and a light flickered overhead. Behind him, fingers divested him of his robe, and it slid to the ground with a rustle. Pale hands reached out and pulled him back, flush against the being. But instead of the expected warmth, the chill the enveloped his figure shocked him.  
  
_Stop_. Harry wanted to say. But what was there to stop? Stop his heart from pounding in excitement? Stop his senses from getting aroused? Stop his skin from being so sensitive to the surroundings, even as all his hair started to stand lightly on their ends.  
  
"Let's say, we make a deal."  
  
Immediately Harry jerked away from the hands, but they pulled him back. Those fingers so smooth, dug into his chest.  
  
"Uh-uh. Not so fast." The tease in the tone was evident, and as much as he wanted to run away, something held him back.  
  
Right. Why was he not taking out his wand to hex this person, this creature? Why was he even thinking of entertaining him? All the same Harry muttered, "What do you want?"  
  
The creature pulled him closer and he felt a sharp needle-like object gracing his neck. Vampire. Oh shit. He should have tried to break away in the first place. Now it was too late. If anything untoward happened to him, the Ministry of Magic could do nothing, for the Seven Days of Night belonged solely to these underworld characters.  
  
"You know what I want. And if you agree, I'll provide you a passageway home, safe and _satisfied_."   
  
The deal seemed fair enough, but the creature's territory treacherous. Harry wants to scream no, he begs himself to do so, but inwardly he knows he wants it, and either way, the creature will have its prey tonight. A mumbled consent glides past his lips and smooth hands pry open the button on his shirt. His trousers make their decent pass his hips, his thighs, and he steps out of it. He is almost naked in the dim glow, before he starts thinking of refusing.  
  
Yet again he is a step behind the rest of the world, revolving without him. Everything happens so quickly. His knickers are removed without vacillation in quick succession and before long something is deep in him pounding him right there, and if it wasn't for the hands that seized his shoulders, he might have crumbled.  
  
_Please._  
  
And then he feels it. Right near his jugular. Cold air ghosts across the hairs that tremble on his heated skin. He's too dizzy, and the pain only serves to add to the pleasure before he faints, cum splattering the rough floorboards below, with fangs still embedded in his neck.  
  
•  
  
"Join us _Harry_. We have what you lost. We have what you _need_. We have what you so desperately _want_."  
  
And Harry tries desperately to erase the voice even as he sits in a corner, too tired to move, and drawn inexplicably to stay.  
  
Little did he know, that aside from his blood, a part of his soul was stolen too.  
  
•  
  
She has turned enough corners to tire. Not a sign of them has appeared, and Hermione's tired. But it is her friend that has gone missing. Part of her tells her Harry's a grown man, and he would be able to take care of himself, but the other is still the Hermione years ago – always looking out for others, putting others before herself. It was that same reason for the dire state they were currently in anyway, but she shakes those nasty thoughts away.  
  
A hiss, and the whole area seems to darken. Hermione shivers before she feels something tight around her waist. Bony fingers hold her captive and she cannot move, cannot speak.  
  
"Oh. A pretty one," the slickness of the words make her feel dirty, used.  
  
"You, you, are one of the …" but her confidence trails off.  
  
The voice answers nonchalantly. "I'm sure you know what I am, _Miss Granger._ After all, you are so well read."  
  
They are too close for comfort, and he's too familiar for her to stay calm, but Hermione lets him take her away when he whispered in her ear, "We know who you're looking for."  
  
•  
  
Hermione is left alone, in a cold empty room, and there her cryptic thoughts pull her back, to memories she prays she will not relieve, to moments she wishes she had never been a part of.  
  
So pregnant was the silence that even the darkness failed to penetrate.  
  
•  
  
"Potter, wake up."  
  
Harry feels along the floorboards, splinters piercing their way to his fingers. He had lost track of time, its might have been minutes, hours, or even a day. He looks into the single eye of the same person- no, creature who had brought him here, who had drank his blood with no remorse, who had made him a-a-a  
  
_A whore._  
  
Grey eye. Eye of the dead. _Wai_.   
  
Grey eye. Grey. The colour of death. The colour of melancholy. The daughter of black and white.   
  
Grey. The colour of Draco Malfoy.  
  
Oh shit.  
  
"I see you've finally figured it out."  
  
_No. Please. No. No. **No.**_  
  
But it is. And memories come flashing back to him, especially the one so fresh, imprinted firmly only moments ago. The countless times when Malfoy had said that he would see Potter below him, see Potter begging, see Potter reduced to nothing. Now that it rung true, the final victor was clear. It burned, and his fists clenched as regret turned into hate once more.  
  
Harry looks up, eyes bright with anger. The vampire is still the same Draco Malfoy. Pale, alabaster skin, even whiter now, the shade of perfection. Blonde hair – the only difference being that it falls casually over his face now. Unlike, but still the same.  
  
"You can't be. You.. you…are.."  
  
"Dead," Draco finished. "And yet still alive."  
  
Harry hands shook from anxiety. "But I, but I, I... k-k-k-ki…"  
  
"Killed me." Draco interrupted again, face breaking into a characteristic smirk. "Killed me so violently, that I still cannot see with my right eye."  
  
A stunned silence from his only audience answered him, and Draco knew he had the upper hand. Letting a sneer drop onto his features, he droned on.  
  
"I was named Draco for _a_ reason. Cue Dracula. You cannot kill me that way, and now, I breathe and live immortally, because of you."  
  
Draco stepped forward, fingers curling around Harry's chin, lifting it awkwardly. Unwillingly, the latter met his eye. For the first time since the war ended, Harry Potter felt fear crawling into his body. Felt it filling his nerves, seeping into his arteries, numbing him. He wanted to turn away, hide, from the awful truth, but the fingers stayed clamped.  
  
"_Pooooootter,_" the haunting tone whispered. Become one us. Why waste your time. After all, your best friend is here as well."  
  
As if it were a play, glaring light flashed behind him, causing him to spin wildly around. The site floored him. Ron, his former best friend, stood calmly with a group of vampires, gold chalice in one hand, the only hand he had left.  
  
"Harry." His former friend's voice was almost cheerful. "Glad to see you've found us at last. A toast."  
  
A little red liquid sloshed over the edge before Ron tipped the entire glass down his throat. Draco moved over and slid his arm around Ron's waist.  
  
"We died _tragically_," Draco intoned as his traitorous arm slithered across to grasp Ron's waist. "But oh, we're best friends now."   
  
They both smiled, eyes illuminated in the overhead light, burning with a slow passion. Draco's shirt was open, two strokes across his chest. The skin was glaringly white where two bumps forced the scars to stand out against the otherwise perfect skin. Harry turned away, knowing full well how the scar was created. Knowing full well why Draco had it exposed.  
  
With a sudden smooth movement, Draco bit on Ron's shoulder and two identical trails of blood sluggishly flowed out. "We share _everything_ now. Even old friends and former enemies." His skilled tongue snaked out and licked the spot where he had bitten down. "Who would you like to be?"  
  
Harry sunk to the floor and buried his face in his hands. How did it get to this? Oh, how could this all have happened? He remembered Ron, smiling, joking and holding Hermione's hand. He recalled all the perfect moments, in front of the fireplace, playing exploding Snap, fooling around with Fred and George. So many of them, priceless bits of frienship, that eventually amounted to nothing.  
  
How could Ron have forgotten all of this? How could he forsake all that he once held dear? Or were they never important to him? His stomach lurched, like how it always did when he was in the Hogwarts Express, watching the scenery blur into something he was not a part of.  
  
Harry braced himself and looked up. Tears glittering in his eyes, but bravely unshed.  
  
"I'll join you."  
  
Draco smiled, and swooped down to give Ron a generous kiss. "You do the honours."  
  
•  
  
"Miss Granger, if you would follow me."  
  
She stood up, but stopped suddenly.  
  
"Malfoy."  
  
"Ooh. You're much brighter than your friend. I have something that you might want to take a look."  
  
Hermione blatantly ignored the insult thrown at Harry. Her mind quickly spread out the possibilities of the situation, and suspicion as to Malfoy's presence clouded her thoughts.  
  
The moment they arrived at their destination, Hermione collapsed.  
  
_It could not be._  
  
But it was.   
  
"Ron! Harry!"  
  
Ron hardly spared her a glance, blood staining his exposed fangs. With a crooked smile of forced sincerity, he turned back and fixated his eyes on the once war hero. Flicking those eyes that once burned with innocence shut, he licked his lips and bit down on Harry's.  
  
"Miss Granger. Do not cry," said Draco, as his fingers wiped the stray tears of Hermione's face. I can give them back to you, if you join me.  
  
Hermione's robe fell to the floor like so many others before her, and she choked back sobs even as Draco buried his fangs into her neck.  
  
•  
  
_Its not your blood we crave, its your** soul**._  
  
•

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**A/N**: This fic was written for the **hpvamp** Vamp!Draco challenge. I drew something to it, and its up at my livejournal where fics generally get posted first. Links to art drawn to fics will possibly be updated in my bio, when my computer decides to start treating me with due respect.

Constructive criticism and reviews would be very nice, but not expected.

•Shadafakup


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